Page 2 of It Taught Me to Hope

E lizabeth’s needs as the proprietor of Longbourn were so few that she did not often walk to Meryton to browse the shops as she and her sisters had done many times as young girls. The memory of those times was now a fond bit of nostalgia, for she and Jane had been inseparable in those days, and she could even recall the happy times with Kitty and Lydia, and even Mary. Mary was the only one of her sisters who agreed to visit the bookshop, for instance, though her tastes in literature were in near opposition to Elizabeth’s. Walking to the town a few days after her visit with Charlotte, Elizabeth fancied she could hear Kitty and Lydia’s giggling as they discussed the butcher’s handsome son or the antics of the blacksmith’s daughter, or those days in which every thought had fixed on the officers of the regiment that fateful autumn to the following summer.

It was not difficult to indulge in those thoughts, to put aside the misery that had followed Lydia’s disappearance, for Elizabeth had long determined to think of the past only as it pleased her. Though she rode the paths of the estate as befitted a gentlewoman with the management of her estate, she had walked for many years when her father had lived, such that the mile walk to Meryton was no impediment. She enjoyed stretching her legs as the opportunity did not present itself so often as it had in the past, yet though she had much experience walking in solitude, it was at times such as this that she missed her sisters the most.

Meryton was much the same as it had been in years past—the same shops lined the sides of the street, the same signs hung above windows proclaiming their purpose, the paint was, if anything, more faded than it had been before, and the same streets became a quagmire when it rained. The only change to come was a proposal to pave the streets of the town with cobblestones, an initiative pushed by the mayor and town council, and supported by Sir William Lucas, a previous mayor of the town who well knew the trouble those streets caused when muddy. While there was no schedule for this improvement to come to fruition so far as Elizabeth knew, they all hoped it would happen soon; the gentlemen of the neighborhood were expected to help cover the cost of the expense. There were a few short-sighted men who balked, but the majority understood it would redound to their benefit, both in access to the town and the movement of goods which provided the income necessary to maintain their properties.

As the war on the continent had ended with the battle in the Kingdom of the Netherlands and the ultimate defeat of the French tyrant, the militia companies were now disbanded. This was welcome to the merchants of Meryton, as Mr. Wickham’s activities and the debts he left behind—along with a few debts from the other men—had nearly bankrupted several of the neighborhood businesses. From the gentlemen’s perspective, the greater concern was the subsequent drop in prices, of land, goods, and many other staples gentlemen counted on for their livelihoods. Longbourn’s income had suffered as a result, though not so much that Elizabeth could not manage, especially with only herself in residence. Some of the neighborhood families had suffered more than others, leading to greater austerity, which affected the town as well.

What most did not account for was the price of goods dropping not only meant less income, but less expense. Elizabeth had attempted to explain this reality of economies, but as she was only a woman in a sea of men managing their estates, most chose not to listen to her. In time, she felt most understood their new reality, and contentment and harmony had returned. One of Elizabeth’s first acts when she came into possession of the estate was to hire a steward, which her father had never employed. While she was of the firm opinion her father would have benefited even considering the expense, a steward was a necessity for a woman who owned her estate; for a young woman to deal with the sometimes-fractious tenant farmers and the other denizens of the estate herself was asking for trouble. The man she had hired had come with excellent references, recommended by her uncle Gardiner, and had proven his worth many times over.

To Elizabeth’s delight, she came across an old friend upon entering the town, as if her friend had been waiting for her appearance. Penelope Scott nee Long was the wife of Meryton’s parson, the parish in Meryton being south of Longbourn’s parish. Elizabeth had known Penelope for many years, her aunt being the widow of Meryton’s previous parson and a resident of the neighborhood since before Elizabeth’s birth.

“Lizzy!” exclaimed Penelope upon seeing her, approaching for a warm embrace. “I had hoped to see you in Meryton today.”

“Why is that, Penelope?” asked Elizabeth with a grin. “Is there some bit of juicy gossip I have missed?”

“Not at all, my friend,” replied Penelope. “I have not seen you since last week and have pined for your company.”

“As I am certain you must have much with which to occupy your time, my absence can cause no particular pangs.”

“There you would be incorrect. Come, will you not take tea with me at the parsonage?”

Agreeing, Elizabeth followed her friend away from the town’s main street to one on the side toward the church and parsonage. Meryton’s church was a larger building than Longbourn’s more modest house of worship located just outside Longbourn’s gates in the village there, and the borders of its parish were more extensive, rendering the living more valuable. The parsonage was a handsome building, and while it was not new, it would be many years before it exceeded its useful life. Penelope had made it a home for herself and her husband, and her young child. The parlor was a light and airy room, smaller than that Longbourn boasted, but peaceful and perfectly situated to a woman of Penelope’s status. The building was smaller than what she had known in Hunsford, speaking to that parish’s value.

“Well, Penelope?” asked Elizabeth when they had their cups of tea in hand. “What was so important that you had to drag me to your home?”

Penelope laughed. “Nothing in particular. Can you not accept that I simply missed your company these past days?”

“Yes, I suppose I can believe your assertion,” replied Elizabeth. “Then it appears I must introduce a subject of conversation. Tell me, how does your son fare?”

No subject could be more pleasing to a young mother, as Penelope proved by speaking at length of her child. He was, as Elizabeth had observed, a precocious boy, curious about everything and learning of the world at a prodigious pace. As Elizabeth listened to her friend speak, she reflected on the vicarious joys of experiencing motherhood through her friends who had achieved that status. While Elizabeth longed to experience it herself, such yearnings did not beset her as often as they did when she had been a girl. In many ways, she was now content with her life and felt it was covetous to hope for anything more when her current situation met her needs.

At length when Penelope exhausted her words of pride for a young son she adored, she turned the conversation. “I apologize for speaking at such length, Elizabeth, for I know it must little interest you.”

“Nonsense! If I was not interested, I would not have asked. It pleases me to see you so content.”

Doubly so because of the sense of melancholy she always sensed in Charlotte’s conversation. There were no guarantees in life as Charlotte proved, but Penelope at least had achieved a position in which she had found her happiness and had some hope of continued pleasure.

“It is a good life,” agreed Penelope. “Mr. Scott is an excellent man with an expectation of advancement in the clergy, and I spend my days doting on my son and husband and caring for the people of the parish. There are many ways to live one’s life that would not be so fulfilling.”

“With that, I cannot disagree,” said Elizabeth, the specter of Lydia’s folly and the subsequent—though imagined—way she had spent her years filling her thoughts.

“What of you, Lizzy?” asked Penelope. “How are you getting on at Longbourn?”

“Very well,” replied Elizabeth. “The estate is prosperous, and I have no cause to repine.”

Elizabeth essayed to relate a few narratives of her recent doings on the estate. As she spoke, Elizabeth tried to suppress the feeling that her life was not as rewarding as that boasted by her friend. While she suspected she had convinced Penelope, she was not certain she had convinced herself.

“I am pleased that everything is proceeding so well. Were I in your shoes I would not manage half so well as you do.”

“It is all about common sense and hiring those who know their work and complete their tasks well.” Elizabeth fixed her friend with a grin. “There is no profound secret to managing an estate. There are things one must learn, but it is not difficult.”

“What of marriage? As I recall, you and Jane were determined to find a man to love. Have you given any such thought in recent months?”

Surprised at Penelope’s question, Elizabeth could not respond for a few moments. When she regained her senses, she gave her friend a censorious glare.

“Have you been speaking with Charlotte? She asked me the same question only a few days ago.”

“Not at all, though I cannot say I am surprised. We all know and love you, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “First, let me correct your misapprehension. Jane and I were not ‘determined to find a man to love.’ Rather we were determined we should not marry unless we found such a man.”

“There is no guarantee, even with such a resolution,” murmured Penelope.

It was a reference to Jane and her situation, Elizabeth knew. There was no reason to speak on the subject, but Elizabeth could do nothing other than acknowledge it.

“Just so. My determination is still in force; I have even less reason to depart from it than I had when I was twenty, for I am secure for the remainder of my life. Having seen several examples of disagreeable unions, I shall not compromise my principles.

“As for your question about my current prospects.” Elizabeth shrugged her indifference. “While it remains possible that I might meet a man and fall in love with him, I think it unlikely in the extreme. Thus, I consider it doubtful that I will ever marry.”

Penelope regarded her for a long moment then appeared to accept Elizabeth’s response. “Very well, Lizzy. I cannot say that I do not understand your determination, for I found a man that I can love. At the same time, I would urge you to keep the possibility open in your mind. You may not look for it, but it may yet find you. If you do not remain receptive to the possibility, the chance may pass you by when it appears.”

“Thank you, Penelope. I shall accept your excellent advice.”

Not long after, Elizabeth bid her friend farewell with promises to invite Penelope and her husband to dinner. As she left, her thoughts dwelt on all that her friend achieved, and she confessed to herself that she had not been so fortunate. Though she had given her promise to remain open to the possibility of love finding her, Elizabeth thought it so little likely as to require no thought at all.

Instead, Elizabeth focused on her errands in the town, visiting a few of the shops and making some minor purchases. As she had refreshed her wardrobe with a few dresses when the first sign of spring had come to the neighborhood, there was no need for such expenses now, and Elizabeth did not purchase so much lace and bonnets as Kitty and Lydia used to indulge. Her one luxury was acquiring a few books from Meryton’s bookstore and a few sticks of sugar candy she loved. As she left town, a gaggle of young girls from the town congregated around her, and she passed out the sticks as she often did before bidding them farewell and departing on the road to Longbourn.

That evening, as was her custom, Elizabeth partook of a simple meal and then retired to Longbourn’s sitting-room to while away the evening with one of her new books. There were nights in which she attended various functions at the houses of the neighborhood, but more often she spent her evenings alone. It was at these times most of all that she felt the encroaching sensation of loneliness and a wish to have a companion with whom to enjoy such times. There was nothing to be done, however, so Elizabeth focused on her reading and spent the evening in earnest contemplation of the words on the page.

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T HE FOLLOWING MORNING , two events of some note, though regular occurrences, enlivened Elizabeth’s morning. The first was the delivery of the mail and a letter from Jane, while the second was when Mary visited soon after Elizabeth left the breakfast room. Not wishing to ruin her appetite, for a letter from Jane never contained as much cheer as Jane tried to portray, Elizabeth set it to the side, taking it with her to the sitting-room where she could read it and reflect on Jane’s situation. It was as she was opening the letter that Mary entered the room carrying her infant son.

“Mary!” said Elizabeth, rising to welcome her sister with an affectionate embrace.

“Good morning, Elizabeth,” replied her sister.

Elizabeth spent a few moments cooing over the young boy in Mary’s arms, who was just now becoming old enough to respond with the occasional smile, his eyes following their every move. When Elizabeth had greeted the young Master Hardwick, Mary laid him in a cradle Elizabeth placed there for the purpose when Kitty visited after the birth of her first child. Then they sat down to visit.

“I see you have a letter,” observed Mary, gesturing at the folded envelope Elizabeth had placed on the side table.

“It is from Jane.”

Mary understood the implication as well as Elizabeth did herself. “Then perhaps you should read it.”

With a nod, Elizabeth opened the letter and perused its contents while Mary settled for fussing about her child, making sure he was comfortable. Elizabeth’s glance at the young boy revealed he was on the verge of falling asleep, but she supposed a mother must concern herself with such matters. Jane’s letter, as Elizabeth had expected, contained her sister’s usual claims of contentment but lacked the cheer that had previously glowed from every word of Jane’s prose. Receiving letters from Jane now reminded Elizabeth of those few months when Jane had visited the Gardiners after the ball in Meryton. The memory was not welcome, but Jane’s letters evoked it, nonetheless.

When she had finished reading, Elizabeth handed the letter to Mary and waited while she read. With Mary, Elizabeth had become much closer over the years, in part because she was the only sister Elizabeth had left nearby, and also because Mary had settled from the girl she had been. Her marriage to Mr. Hardwick had done wonders for Mary’s perspective and outlook on life, for gone was the judgmental young woman who had peered at the world through the jaundiced eyes of one who relied to excess on works such as those of the late and unlamented Reverend Fordyce. Elizabeth still remembered the day, not long before Mary had married Mr. Hardwick in Longbourn church when they had taken her copy of Fordyce’s sermons outside and burned it with great fanfare.

“You are closer to Jane than I am, Lizzy,” said Mary, handing the letter back when she finished, “but her manner of expressing herself suggests a lack of cheer.”

“That it does,” said Elizabeth. “It is unfortunate, for I still am of the firm belief that Jane is the one of us most deserving of happiness.”

“Jane’s situation provides proof that we must take great care in such things as choosing our future husband. What one thinks is love may prove superficial with experience.”

Elizabeth smiled at her sister. While Mary’s opinions and view of life had moderated, she still moralized, though her moralities had lost the severe tone she often used in the past. She also preferred moral treatises and religious texts, though the literature she favored was no longer so puritanical as it had been.

“Yes, you are correct, Mary, though I will defend Jane’s decision. There was little indication of the true character of her husband, for he hid it well from us all. Jane thought she was in love with him and he with her when she accepted his proposal. It is unfortunate that he is not the man we all thought him to be.”

Mary regarded Elizabeth for a long moment before speaking. “There are other reasons for marrying, Lizzy.”

“This coming from a woman who, in the end, married her husband for affection,” laughed Elizabeth.

A rosy hue suffused Mary’s cheeks. “That was not the only reason I married Mr. Hardwick.”

“I know that, Mary,” replied Elizabeth. “Having had experience yourself, you cannot discount the lure of such things when choosing a marriage partner.”

Mary was not yet willing to concede the point. “It is my opinion that respect, common opinions and goals, and compatibility of temperament are of equal if not greater importance.”

“And I would agree with that sentiment.” Elizabeth reached over and grasped Mary’s hand. “I do not believe Jane neglected any of these considerations when she decided to accept her husband’s offer of marriage. He hid much of himself, including his motivations, from her while they were courting. Jane wished to find love and thought she had found it, which proves your point about needing to take care to understand what one believes they have found. I do not suppose Jane’s method was in error—only the duplicity of her husband.”

“You are correct, of course,” sighed Mary. “It is unfortunate that she is tied to the man for the rest of her life and must exist in a state of unhappiness. I wish the best for all our sisters. It is just that Jane’s situation seems so much like our parents, for she discovered too late the truth of her partner in life.”

“I considered that aspect myself. Yet there is reason for cheer. You have attained the life for which you wished, and no one can describe Kitty as anything other than deliriously happy with her situation. I now own Longbourn, which provides a refuge and a means of income for me, and one day, your son will be the master of the property. If Jane’s situation is pitiable, there is hope it will improve, perhaps when she conceives a child of her own.”

“One can hope.” Curiosity marked Mary’s regard. “I know you designated my son your heir in your will, but do you not suppose that will change when you marry? You do yet mean to marry, do you not?”

The question provoked Elizabeth to laugh. “That question appears to be in vogue of late, for you are the third this week to ask it!”

“That is only because we all love you,” was Mary’s prim reply. “I suppose one of your questioners was Charlotte, but who was the other?”

“Penelope, and only yesterday. So that we may dispense with the question altogether, let me respond the same as I did to them, yet with sufficient brevity that I may avoid tearing my hair out by its roots. I do not suppose I will ever marry, for I cannot imagine a man presenting himself and inducing me to love him as much as I wish. As you suggested, our parents and Jane both provide cautionary tales. As I will not marry without the deepest of love, I will retain the Bennet name until I die.”

“Very well, Lizzy,” said Mary. “I cannot blame you for your sentiments, not with the experiences we have had. Is Mr. Mason still making a nuisance of himself?”

Elizabeth could only shrug. “He does not visit me at Longbourn, which is a blessing. When we are in company together, he consumes far more of my time than I wish, but in truth, I cannot make him out. His method of recommending himself seems almost absent, as if he believes I am afire with anticipation for him to come to the point.”

“That is a more accurate portrayal of Mr. Mason’s character than any other I have heard,” said Mary, her response not lacking wryness. “I heard several others suggest that his ownership of the neighborhood’s largest estate has swelled his head to prodigious proportions.”

“Little though he required it,” retorted Elizabeth. “From the first moment of our acquaintance, I thought his vanity far more in need of piercing than anyone I have met since Mr. Darcy came to the neighborhood.”

Mary cocked her head to the side as if trying to remember from whence she recalled the name. “Mr. Bingley’s friend, as I recall. Did you not see him again in Kent after they all departed from the neighborhood?”

“He spent three weeks visiting his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who was Mr. Collins’s patroness if you recall.”

“You did not get on well.”

Elizabeth nodded, not wishing to discuss the subject of Mr. Darcy. “When in Kent, he was not much improved from his behavior at Netherfield. In time, I began to understand something of his character, which amended my opinion of him. Even so, he remained a proud and disagreeable man in my estimation.”

“Yet much of his suspected unchristian tendencies proved false thereafter.”

“If you refer to Mr. Wickham, you are correct.” Elizabeth shook her head with disdain. “To this day I regret giving as much heed to Mr. Wickham’s tales as I did. If I had been more discerning, perhaps we might have prevented Lydia’s disgrace.”

“Do not take the blame on your shoulders, Lizzy. Allow it to rest where it belongs, with Lydia and Mr. Wickham, and even our father. Papa should never have allowed such a silly, heedless girl to go even five miles from Longbourn’s borders.”

“You will receive no disagreement from me.”

“Do you suppose Lydia has found happiness?”

The question surprised Elizabeth, for Mary and Lydia had been the two sisters least likely to coexist in harmony. Many times, Lydia had been no less than unkind to Mary, calling her dowdy or jeering at her for not dancing as much as Lydia at assemblies. To Elizabeth’s certain knowledge, Mary had resented Lydia as a girl, and she could well understand the sentiment. Part of Mary’s mellowing process had been the manifest softening of her feelings for their youngest sister, charitable forgiveness espoused by those possessing excellent characters.

“I cannot say,” replied Elizabeth. “She always was a heedless girl, one who jumped with both feet into any puddle without confirming its depth. While she almost certainly has failed to retain her status as a gentlewoman, perhaps her circumstances are not so bad as we fear, though I do not suppose we will ever know the truth.”

“Perhaps it is better that we do not.” Mary appeared somber as if admitting it was difficult. “I think I could find it in my heart to welcome her return if it ever happened, yet it may be best if the break between us remains.”

“Yes, I suspect you may be correct.”

After a few moments of silence, they turned to other less fraught and more agreeable subjects, passing their time together in conversation that recovered their good moods. Mary stayed and took lunch with Elizabeth, the invitation offered after Mary had mentioned that her husband was to be away from the house on business for most of the day. When Mary left that afternoon, citing the need to prepare for her husband’s return, Elizabeth allowed her to go, reflecting on the benefits of having a sister nearby, especially with her solitary state as the only occupant of her family’s ancestral home. The closeness with Mary was a benefit Elizabeth could not have expected when she was twenty, but she now held tight to her accord with her sister in her heart.